Before It Breaks Page 4

  ‘You called Lisa?’

  Taylor said, ‘Same time as the ambulance.’

  ‘Something to look forward to.’ Shepherd flexed as he spoke, as if preparing for his show of muscular strength that would knock Lisa Keeble off her feet. Not for the first time Clement wondered what went on in that brain and visualised some pinball contraption. He got Taylor to try the croc guys again. They hadn’t left Derby yet.

  ‘Tell them to get a wriggle on.’

  Taylor blasted them down the line. Clement was thinking they’d need to check the creek for evidence but nobody was going to dive in there if there might be a croc about.

  ‘These guys are good, right?’

  ‘The best,’ Taylor was definite. ‘Any croc’s in there, they’ll trap him.’

  ‘Yeah well I’m not going in.’ Shepherd folded his arms. Clement had a good mind to order him in now. His phone rang. Number withheld on the ID.

  ‘Clement.’

  ‘This is Gerd Osterlund. You left a message on my voicemail, Detective.’

  German accent. Rudi perhaps?

  ‘Thank you for returning my call. Sir, are you a friend of Dieter Schaffer?’

  A pause.

  ‘An acquaintance. Why?’

  ‘Mr Schaffer has been killed.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ It sounded like genuine shock. ‘An accident?’

  ‘We don’t know. I found your number on his phone. Under the name Rudi.’

  ‘His nickname for me. He called me yesterday morning to say he was going fishing. It’s awful.’

  ‘Did he have any family here?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Like I say, we were acquaintances.’

  Clement didn’t see any value in hanging about here. He needed to know all he could about Dieter Schaffer as soon as possible. He asked if he could come and see Osterlund now. ‘Sure. I’m practically retired.’

  Clement asked where Osterlund lived.

  ‘Broome. Number five Mars Place. You know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it. I’ll be a couple of hours.’

  He ended the call asked the guys where Mars Place was.

  Shepherd jumped in. ‘Private little cul-de-sac above Cable Beach, a half-dozen houses, three mill plus. I went to a pool party there for Kirsty Liriano.’

  ‘Who is…?’

  Shepherd was waiting for a chance to trump Clement’s ignorance. ‘American singer. Hot.’

  While Clement had faith in Taylor’s competence he knew that he could feel insecure with responsibility. Shepherd would have to stay with Taylor and be ranking officer. Poor Lisa Keeble.

  He pulled the card from Schaffer’s phone and put it into his wallet. The phone he sealed in an evidence bag which he handed to Shepherd.

  ‘Give this to Lisa. I want you to ring around all the banks, find out who Dieter Schaffer banked with. I want you to check any withdrawals. If he had a credit or debit card, find out. They’re to call me direct if it has been used anywhere since last night, or if it is used again.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Call me if there’s anything important at all.’

  Foot to the floor, Clement hammered down the highway, illegally calling Risely with just one hand on the wheel. He caught the boss mid-scone at a church forum where indigenous and town leaders were brainstorming how to keep local youths on the straight and narrow. What flashed through Clement’s mind was a room with a couple of brand new ping-pong tables that would be trashed within a month. Best of intentions guaranteed no results. The kids needed fathers but half of them were banged up in jail or on the run. He ran through the basics as Risely munched.

  ‘Homicide?’

  ‘Quite likely.’

  Clement explained he was trying to find out more about the victim. Risely was relaxed.

  ‘How are we going to search the creek?’

  ‘Jared’s got a couple of croc trappers onto it.’

  ‘Good. Hagan and Lalor are back. I’ll send them to secure the site and watch it overnight. Call me if you know anything.’

  That’s what you wanted in a boss, though Clement wasn’t getting carried away. He hadn’t worked with Risely in a pressure situation yet. His years in the city had shown him that was when monsters revealed themselves. He searched about for his Cruel Sea CD, realised it must have been at his apartment and settled on Dr John because he only owned five CDs and this was one of two in the car. Just after the good Doctor had finished and the Black Crowes were being given their chance to shine along the relentlessly flat road, he passed the ambulance on its way to the crime scene. About ten minutes later Lisa Keeble followed in her old Fairlane. It had been her grandfather’s but she’d retained its pristine condition. Clement figured it must guzzle half her wages in fuel but she’d told him she was sentimental and it was worth every cent. She looked like a jockey in that beast, her head just visible over the dash. She gave him the nor-west wave, a barely perceptible raise of the fingers off the wheel.

  It took Clement a good hundred minutes to make Broome. On the road he toyed with the idea of hitting the Anglers Club first but decided to wait for the post-work ‘rush’. It amused Clement the way so many people talked of Broome like it was some Valhalla. No doubt it was exotic, desert on one side, green-blue ocean on the other, a Japanese cemetery testifying to the presence of a community that began with their pearl divers over a century before and was bombed by Japanese planes in World War Two. Flicking through glossy airline magazine photos of the pristine white sand of Cable Beach, occupied only by camels and swimwear models, Europeans read of this isolated land of pearls and giant sea turtles and made it a must-see along with Tangiers, Buenos Aires and an ice-hotel in the Arctic Circle. But for all that, the town was flat with more than its share of box-like brick buildings, chain-link fences and litter. You could have been blindfolded, drugged and dumped in parts of town and woken assuming you were in one of those Perth industrial suburbs like Welshpool. What was unique was the mix of people, indigenous groups — some the original coastal clans, others whose forebears had drifted in from the desert—jumbled with money-chasing miners and old hippies, both the genuine pot-smoking Kombi van breed and affluent boomers who yearned to have been the real thing, grown tired of their well-paid government jobs to the south, on a pilgrimage to an idea. Except for the hippies and musicians travelling up from Perth for the annual Shinju Festival, nobody had paid much attention to this oasis on the tip of a desert until the 1980s when it was marketed as a kind of real people’s Club Med. To Clement, the attraction of Broome had always been simple, it actually was an oasis, and when you travelled to it from whatever direction through hundreds of ks of boring, scrubby desert, all its positives were maximised. Broome was to travellers what the sight of a woman must have been to whalers returning from a long expedition. Even with teeth missing, a port whore was desirable, but a pleasantly attractive woman was glorious. Growing up here, Clement had loved the open space, the smell of the bush, the Robinson Crusoe beach; but there was a lot he was glad to turn his back on. Months out of every year you couldn’t swim in the tantalising sea for box jellyfish even though the heat and humidity was smoking you through. And he hated the deadbeats that drifted here. Broome was like family: you might love it but if you stuck around long enough it grated. He felt confined and defined by it. Given a real choice, he wouldn’t have chosen to return. His phone rang. It was Shepherd.

  ‘Dieter was a Savings Bank client of Bankwest. No cards; cash transactions, a little in, a little out; a balance of nearly eight thousand. Last withdrawal was three hundred bucks over two weeks ago.’

  The guy was frugal. ‘He might have had one with another bank.’

  ‘I checked them all. None of the locals have him as a customer except Bankwest.’

  Clement had been hoping that if this was indeed a robbery-homicide somebody would stuff up and use Dieter’s card, but that wasn’t going to be an option. ‘What about the croc blokes?’

  ‘They’re onto it. Say it could be tomorr
ow before it’s safe to go in.’

  It wasn’t the kind of thing you could rush apparently.

  ‘Alright.’

  Clement ended the call as he broke free of the industrial section of town and struck out for the ridge overlooking Cable Beach. In the last twenty years this millionaire’s row had grown gradually. The pearl farmers, like Marilyn’s family, generally lived further out of town on estates overlooking the ocean but many of the town’s wealthy and newly settled were dotted up around here.

  Mars Place turned out to be a new strip of asphalt running between lush vegetation. Clement had never been to the Caribbean but this was how he imagined it. Each of the properties was the width of half a dozen suburban houses and all were screened in bush. Palm trees rose high in several places. Number 5 was not identified, nor was number 3, but 1 and 7 were so Clement found it by the process of elimination. A short driveway off Mars Place led to an iron gate set between white walls. The gate had been left open. Clement took the narrow drive which rose slowly before ending in a small circle, nothing ostentatious. A tile path led up between a natural, well-tendered garden of luscious grevillea and other plants unknown to Clement, and ended in low wooden steps and a veranda. The front door was open. Balinese carvings and indoor plants adorned the vestibule.

  ‘Hello?’ called Clement on the threshold.

  Footsteps scuffed over a slate floor. The man he assumed was Osterlund appeared around a corner. Wiry, sixties, a grey ponytail, loose Indian style cotton shirt and pants, espadrilles. Clement automatically made him for advertising or IT.

  ‘Detective? Come through.’

  Osterlund didn’t offer his hand, simply swung on his heel. One used to giving orders. Clement followed up the short hallway which gave onto a stunning wide and spacious split-level lounge. You didn’t notice the expensive mix of modern and aboriginal artwork on the walls, nor the minimalist European furniture. Not at first. Dead ahead through floor to ceiling glass spanning the width of the house was the Indian Ocean and Cable Beach. It was breathtaking. Osterlund floated coffee or tea as refreshment. Clement dragged himself from the vista and accepted coffee. A sleek young Asian woman in a sarong whom Clement hadn’t even realised was there, moved to oblige. She had been standing in front of a massive wall painting, camouflaged by it, her clothes being of similar colour. When she moved, the effect was of her stepping out of the two-dimensional space into the real world. Osterlund did not introduce her. Clement assumed she was a servant.

  ‘White? Sugar?’

  ‘Yes and yes. One.’

  Osterlund didn’t even glance at the woman who moved towards a galley of shining steel and stone surfaces. He gestured to a bright orange sofa on the lower level, adorned with lime green cushions.

  ‘It gets the downdraft,’ explained Osterlund pointing at the closest ceiling fan. ‘I don’t like air-conditioning.’

  ‘With you there, except in a car,’ quipped Clement.

  Osterlund smiled. They sat. The sound of a cappuccino machine erupted in the background. Osterlund got to the point.

  ‘Dieter is dead?’

  ‘His body was at a place called Jasper’s Creek.’

  ‘I don’t know it. I am not a fisherman.’ He sighed, frowned. ‘That’s upsetting. You said it may not be an accident.’

  ‘It’s possible he was murdered.’

  Osterlund shifted slightly in his seat, a natural reaction. ‘Robbery?’

  ‘We’re looking into that. Would you know if his boat had an outboard motor?’

  It bothered Clement no motor had been with the boat, people had been killed for less. Of course it could be on the bottom of the creek.

  ‘I only went out with him once, in an aluminium runabout. That had a motor. May I ask how he died?’

  ‘We’re not certain.’

  The girl arrived with his coffee and a tea in a glass for Osterlund. Clement thanked her. She had large, dark brown eyes. She didn’t look more than early twenties.

  ‘The last time you spoke was yesterday morning, you said.’

  ‘Ja. I don’t remember exactly what time but I think between ten and eleven. Poor old Dieter.’

  They sipped their drinks at the same time. The coffee could have come from a café, smooth, professional, though Clement’s tooth or gum twinged at the hot fluid.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing really. Dieter was a lonely fellow, a bit tragic. He calls every day or so and starts talking about German football or the weather, crocodiles. I don’t share much with him except we are both German. Probably he just wanted to hear my wife answer.’

  It was the first time Osterlund had mentioned his wife. Clement almost stepped right in and asked where she was but Osterlund continued.

  ‘He was always going on about how lucky a man my age was to find a beautiful young woman like Tuthi.’

  Osterlund gestured at the young woman who had served them. She was busy making the kitchen immaculate again. Clement felt dumb and was only pleased his gaff remained private. He pushed on.

  ‘Did he have any close friends?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He was a loner really. He’d talk about the guys at the Angler Club. I think he had a few drinking mates.’

  ‘Did he have a job? What did he do for money?’

  ‘He told me he had a police pension.’

  ‘Did he have credit cards?’

  Osterlund cast through his mind. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  Osterlund’s eyes shifted evasively. ‘I don’t want to speak badly of Dieter. He was okay but he gambled, he drank, he mixed with a … how you say it, a rough crowd.’

  Clement wasn’t sure if Osterlund was a snob or if he was covering for his dead friend, making him sound more genteel than he was.

  ‘Did he owe money?’

  ‘Probably. He asked me for loans from time to time. I didn’t oblige.’

  ‘And he has no family?’

  ‘Not here. I think he may have mentioned a sister in Germany. Actually, I am pretty sure he did but I don’t think she lived in Hamburg.’

  ‘So he was not married. Children?’

  ‘He told me he had no children. We have none. The subject came up. He said he was sad about not being a father. He was married but divorced. He did not speak about it much. I don’t think he ever mentioned his ex-wife by name.’

  ‘Do you know when the marriage might have ended?’

  ‘Not exactly but I think it was a long time ago. I remember him saying once something about being a bachelor for twenty years. It might have been thirty.’

  Clement made notes. ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘Where everybody met Dieter, at a pub. He heard me talking, picked the accent and came over and introduced himself.’

  ‘This was when?’

  ‘Two, three years ago. He said he was from Hamburg. I grew up in Hanover. We were about the same age, so you know, we had some fun talking old times, Germany when we were growing up.’

  ‘Is it true he was a policeman?’

  ‘I have no idea. He claimed he was a policeman, had plenty of stories. I believed him.’

  ‘Did he ever say why he came to live here?’

  ‘The climate. I think he had nothing in Germany, no family, no work. The idea of crocodiles and fishing … well Germans are suckers for that.’

  ‘Why did you move here?’

  ‘Actually, I lived in Bali for six years. For Germans Bali is the tropical paradise, the Holy Grail. I went there in my twenties and promise myself when I retire I will go back. Eventually I did. I met Tuthi there. But Bali became too busy, too … spoilt. Muslims, Australians, no offence. One lot want to chop your hand off for drinking, the others get drunk and vomit on the street. We took a trip down here one time and I liked it. Like Bali used to be. Similar climate and you Aussies are better behaved at home.’

  ‘That was when?’

  ‘A little more than three years ago. I’m here for good.’
>
  ‘So as far as you know Dieter had no enemies?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he wasn’t unusually worried lately?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  Clement asked the obvious question. ‘Last night. You were here?’

  Osterlund did not seem offended. ‘Ja. We had guests for dinner, Gilbert Lucas and his wife, Sondra, across the road. Early dinner. They left around nine-thirty. We drank some wine and went to bed about ten.’

  ‘You are retired I think you said?’

  ‘More or less. I have a few business interests in Europe still. These days, Skype, Twitter, all this stuff, it is easy to work from anywhere.’

  Clement scanned the large, sparse room, saw a laptop set up at the end of the long breakfast bar. ‘What line of business? You mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. IT. I got in early, made good money before the space became crowded.’

  Clement awarded himself a prize for guessing correctly. Osterlund reached into what might have been a cigar box once and handed him a card which was printed in German on one side and English on the reverse. It simply read OIC with a bunch of contact numbers. Clement recognised the one for Broome.

  ‘If you need to speak to me again, Detective, or need IT solutions.’

  He said it without the hint of a smile and Clement couldn’t be sure if he was serious or just being very droll. Clement found a crumpled, soiled card in his wallet and deposited it on the table to return the compliment, knowing Osterlund had got the worst of the deal.